Just dragging myself awake after a strange night -- first one of the powerful, terrifying, judgment-of-God storms that Georgia is known for, thunderclaps erupting at volumes that seem louder than normal, some harbinger of apocalypse. Hours later, long after the storm had eased off into pounding, constant rain, my extended rise from slumber was entwined with a dream laden with symbolism, some of it fairly obvious, other parts flashing me back to efforts to understand Dostoyevsky in high school.
I'll spare details (which are fading fast), but it's got me on another of my self-absorbed kicks, contemplating aging as I sip my coffee, extra-moodily.
Instead, a few photos of an odd building, taken on another gray day not long ago. I drive by the Lake Building daily, and I've always figured it was in full use -- it seems well-kept up, the sign's pretty prominent, and it's in an area that's undergone a spate of new condo creations -- I figured it must be in use if it's survived. But I was stricken recently that for an office/apartment building, there sure aren't many (read: any) cars in the parking lot.
It appears the chiropractic practice (which was featured in Mitchell's "Ponce de Leon") is, indeed, long gone. The phone number is transferred to another chiropractor, elsewhere in town. You can see into what appears to be a waiting room, but it looks like a museum piece, with old uncomfortable-looking chairs and a fallout shelter sign. Well kept but obviously disused. Elsewhere in the building, though, there are signs of life; walking around, I heard faint phantom voices behind doors, and leaving, noted a plant on a balcony. It's a curious building; the architecture suggests it was once a motel, but that's a completely uneducated guess, not based on any actual knowledge.